


Crying Out Dreams of Leaving in the Mourning Light

by dementia_hormones



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Heavy Angst, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 11:09:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3325325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dementia_hormones/pseuds/dementia_hormones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bastian takes his chance on the most romantic day of the year, which results in Lukas finding anonymous messages of love from unknown numbers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crying Out Dreams of Leaving in the Mourning Light

**Author's Note:**

> Major angst warning. I've been feeling really down about Lukas's current situation at Inter Milan so I really needed to let this out. So I apologize, and read this at your own risk, because I have exploited this Valentine's challenge for my own evil purposes. Mwa ha ha ha!
> 
> I created a playlist for this fic. Each song is dear to me and served as heavy inspiration while writing. You can listen to it here: http://8tracks.com/fadedmandarin-911/schweinski-valentine-s-challenge-playlist

**Monday**

AM: He trudges down the long, white hallway of the _Pinetina_. Another day, another dollar, so they say. Today’s schedule calls for a light practice session out on the pitch. They work on speed and man-to-man marking; the deficiencies in both aspects have left large gaps in the team's ability to get ahead in the league. Chasing Shaqiri around all morning has him ready to conk out. The little guy’s built like a truck, and he’s fucking _fast_ , damn it.

It's February. January had been a whirlwind. He's barely been able to keep track of his time here on Inter Milan, but so far it's proving to be as disappointing as it was at Arsenal and Bayern Munich. He's not the least bit surprised; by now it's a tried and true formula.They were supposed to win everything, but they haven't, and their coveted third spot in _Serie A_ is looking more and more unlikely with each passing week. He feels like it's all his fault because he's one of the new signings; he was supposed to be a fail-safe, the team's motivator, a fresh pair of legs in front of the goal box. And so far, he's played like shit. It’s fucking depressing.

~

PM: He reports to the gym for strength and power training. Same old, same old. Squats, lunges, dead-lifts, push-ups... jump rope. He always feels stupid doing that one. His legs are killing him afterwards, and he doesn't look forward to the manual therapy. The physiotherapist is anything but gentle, but he doesn't bother to complain, because it only encourages them. He takes the opportunity to check his phone during the session and finds a message from an unknown number:

_You've got what I need_   
_And every desire that I crave_   
_You’re just what I want  
The perfect body, the perfect face_

There’s only one person obsessed enough with him to send something this sappy: Bastian. He texts back, _Loser, if this is you trying to impress me then consider yourself blacklisted_ , but the message doesn't go through. Odd. So he re-sends the text to Bastian’s number, who responds with, _Huh? Don’t do that, it would kill me :-(_  He snorts to himself.

 

**Tuesday**

AM: He wakes up. Skips his coffee to drink a shake instead. (It's cucumber with mint and whey protein, fortified with essential vitamins and minerals for optimum nutrition). He doesn't really "eat" anymore; there's no room for that kind of pleasure. He grows his body like a plant: water, sunlight, minerals, energy, efficiency, maximum output. His phone goes off with a beep, and he looks down to see an alert:

_I love who you are_   
_For every move you make_   
_For every word you say_   
_And for every second that we spend_

While it sounds like something Bastian would say, he wonders why it's coming from another unknown number. Maybe he’s got a stalker. It wouldn't be the first time. Last year he’d been forced to get a restraining order on an overly exuberant fan who had broken into his London apartment - he’d found her in his bed. He writes the number down so that he can block it. Then he’s on the road to Inter's training center.

When he arrives inside the changing room, there are a dozen red roses sitting on the bench in front of his locker. He looks around before picking them up and giving them a covert sniff. He reads the attached card:

 _'Cause I'm lost every second without you  
_ _And it feels like I'm losing my mind  
_ _Keeping true to ourselves through the distance  
_ _Makes me feel like romancing a stone_

Bastian. It has to be. He recognizes the words now: it’s the song Bastian sang to him non-stop at Bahia during training for the World Cup last summer. He'd punched Bastian's shoulder and/or covered his mouth every time the goofball had started singing it - he'd rather have set himself on fire than ever admit to liking the song.

 _What do you want, Basti? You’re not here to cry me to sleep at night, and no amount of sappy texts or flowers are going to change that._ He shoves the flowers into the back of his locker behind his away kit, then dons his practice gear and heads out to the training field. The cold bites at his nose and ears, but he’s got his neck warmer on and his core is nice and toasty, so he barely feels it. He’s anxious to keep moving. Sitting still is bad for his nerves.

Today is low intensity, because they've got a game tomorrow. Warm up consists of speed and reaction movement: dodging around poles, shuttle runs and directional changes at the blow of a whistle. They practice possession ball, with quick, short passes, because that seems to be the way they've been forced to play in games.

Mancini says nothing to him after the session but gives Shaqiri a pat on the back. He chalks it up to over-enthusiasm and the barking dog that doesn't know how to stop jumping for treats. Shaqiri is six years younger than him with a bone to chew, and this is the Alpine Messi’s team now, so he doesn't blame the kid. He has no team.

At lunch, he gets another unknown text:

 _I'm going to take my time  
_ _I have all the time in the world to make you mine  
_ _It is written in the stars above  
_ _You'll be right here by my side, right next to me  
_ _You can run, but you cannot hide_

He deletes it. Then calls Bastian. When Bastian answers, he tells him, “Stop. Stupid lyrics are stupid and you’re wasting your time,” and hangs up. Bastian calls him back a minute later, but instead of responding, he shuts off his phone.

~

PM: They’ve got a meeting. It’s about the Europa League. There’s been a change to the lineup: Podolski out - Shaqiri in. He smiles and squeezes the younger man’s shoulder, who beams back at him with more pride than empathy.

He drives home. He guesses it’s fair. Shaqiri’s gotten a goal and he hasn't - funny how things turn out. Still, he can’t help but recall sitting in front of Mancini, pen in hand and papers in front of him, with the man _telling_ him to his face that he’d get Europa League time if he'd only sign.

He swallows those thoughts and thinks of other things. Playing perfect football. His son. Bastian. The bastard. Who was he fooling with his stupid texts and flowers? Like it was just supposed to make everything magically better? No. Fuck that.

As he leaves the training grounds, he spots a small crowd of journalists waiting by his car. He’s sure they already have questions ready, and he’s right. They hit him full force: “Why has Roberto Mancini’s chosen Xherdan Shaqiri over you for the Europa League campaign?” “You've appeared six times in competitions for Internazionale, but you have yet to score your first goal in Italy. Can you explain why?” “Do you still feel that Arsene Wenger didn't use you properly?" "Is this it for you and the German National Team?"

He’s tired and frustrated, but he puts on his trademark Poldi smile and calmly says he doesn't know, he’s a patient man, that he’s focused on the _Coppa Italia_ tomorrow and _Serie A_ competition. When he gets home, he calls his agent to fill him in, and he's told that it’s already being worked on and to just trust him. “ Rest easy, Mr. Podolski. We have a protocol in place for times like these.”

The last thing he does that evening is call his phone company to block all of the numbers. He debates changing his number, but doesn't want to have to explain things to Monika when she can’t reach him.

His sleep that night is deep and dreamless.

 

**Wednesday**

Game day. They travel to Napoli. It’s warmer than it’s been in weeks, and the field’s dry, but there’s an undercurrent of apprehension throughout the team. Napoli has brought its strongest lineup with players like Gonzalo Higuain and Marek Hamsik, and the  _Partenopei,_ being on their home turf, don't have much to worry about.

He’s left out of the starting line-up. Eighteen year-old George Puscas is chosen over him, and the new signing, Marcelo Brozovic, gets his first start. He reminds himself to be patient; there’s a reason he’s here, and there is a spot on the team for him. It doesn't really help. He spends the first half watching both sides mount dangerous attacks but no goals.

During halftime, he kicks a ball around the field a bit, pretends he’s having a good time, hopes Mancini will change his mind and put him in - he doesn't. He tucks his phone it into the front of his pants and does his best to keep his hands off of it. The 90th minute comes and goes, and it doesn't look good for the _Nerazzurri_. He secretly prays either side will score - he can’t handle thirty minutes of overtime.

In the 93rd minute, Higuain shakes off Inter’s captain, Andrea Ranocchia, and finds the top corner of the net.

They’re out of the _Coppa_ _Italia_. Well. No matter. He'll be gone by summer.

 

**Thursday**

AM: He wakes up, checks his phone, and there’s a voice message along with five missed calls, all from Monika. He dials voicemail and listens to the angry message: "Why aren't you fucking answering your phone? Louis has been asking for you, he wants to know if you’re coming home, anytime soon, maybe. It’d be nice. Call me. Call him."

He steels himself and dials up her number, knowing what he’s going to get.

“Lukas?”

“Hi Moni.”

“I was beginning to think I’d never hear from you again.”

“I’m sorry, Moni.”

“You haven’t been home in weeks. What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Is it me? Work? Are you feeling okay?”

“It’s not you. I’m fine. everything’s fine. I've just been having a rough month.”

“When’s the last time you had a good one?”

He thinks. He can’t remember.

“You promised Louis you would come home every week.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I've been busy, you know that.”

“How many more broken promises? Louis loves you. He wants to see you. How long do you think that lasts? Soon, he may not even want to come to your games. It’s so fast, Lukas. It’s a few years, then it’s over. And you’re missing it.”

He knows she’s right. She’s right about everything. But how is he supposed to juggle his career and his family and everything else that’s happening when they live in separate cities, and Monika won’t even move in with him? His fault, again. Louis needs stability; their son can’t be shuttling from school to school every time his father jumps to a new team. And… there’s Bastian. She's made it clear she won't share with him. He feels like a passenger, watching his life go by, powerless to take the wheel.

“Look, I've got to get to training.  I’ll come home next week. I promise. Tell him that, would you please? And tell him I love him.” He can’t stand talking to his wife for another moment.

She hangs up without saying goodbye. He sighs. Putters about his apartment. Uploads a photo of himself to his Instagram and Twitter and Facebook with his favorite muscle car, captioned, _all black, black everything_. Revels in his melancholy.

When he opens his door to go to training, he finds more flowers - this time two orchids resting in a pot, entwined around each other. He rolls his eyes but reaches down to pick up the pot and inspect the card:

 _You fall away from me  
_ _And I’m here left with all your pain  
_ _I swear that it won’t end like this  
_ _I stand behind you still  
_ _Just steps away so you can reach your hand out  
_ _To hold on to me_

He has half a mind to call Bastian up right now and tell him to leave him the fuck alone, but apparently the first time didn't work - it’s only encouraged the big dope. And... he isn't ready to hear what Bastian might say,

PM: It’s snowing pretty hard at the _Pinetina_ when he arrives. Those who have played on Wednesday are taking it easy in the aquatic center. He lets him himself go. Has fun running around with the second team. Has forgotten to shave, but doesn't care. He takes comfort in how easy it is to just forget the week, the month. His soul’s already frozen. Nothing can touch him. But he still feels like there's a thorn inside whenever he laughs.

 

**Friday**

AM: Moderate high-intensity work on the field. Possession drills again and 11-versus-11 tactical play. Mancini makes sure their passes are for a purpose: to score. It’s raining and cold, which does nothing to improve their mood, but they all tough it out, anxious to get on and do something right.

They play directionally, starting at Vidic and passing their way up to him; he tries to lose his shadow and runs through the middle because it’s unexpected, especially for him. It’s easy because Donkor is a baby and he’s gullible and, well, bullying other players on the pitch is kind of his calling card.

Shaqiri is brimming with energy this morning, and he’s chatting away about how an Internazionale fan club is throwing him a party this weekend in his honor, how his new puppy has pooped all over the kitchen floor, how his car’s gotten a flat tire on the way to practice and almost made him late, but he wasn't, _thank God_ , and - oh - he’s just thought of a new move all by himself that he’s dying to try out.

He sips his energy drink and drowns Shaqiri out, watches the Italians joke around in their language and wonders what they’re saying.

“Well? Hey, Poldi?”

“What?”

“I said, do you want to practice the move with me later?”

He smiles at the Swede like he always does and says, “Sure, Xherdan.”

On the way back to the changing rooms he hops into the bathroom, because he just can’t take another minute of Shaqiri’s incessant jabbering, doesn’t want to deal with the rest of the team, just needs a moment to himself. While he’s holed away in a stall checking his social media accounts, someone enters the bathroom. He sighs. He just can’t catch a break. There’s the sound of footsteps right up to his stall, and a package is slipped under his door, then the person is gone. He opens the package. It’s chocolates. He almost throws the accompanying message away, but his curiosity gets the better of him.

 _You want it, you need it?  
_ _You want it, you got it  
_ _Tomorrow at the Sheraton Milan Malapensa, 7 pm, Room 151_

He crumbles the note up and throws it in the trash along with the chocolates, since they’re off his diet plan. The Sheraton is attached to the airport. It's got to be Bastian. Has he gone crazy? How would they possibly make this work? Bayern’s playing on Saturday afternoon, and there’s an Inter game on Sunday. But what if it isn't Bastian? The likelihood of a crazed stalker arranging a tryst at a busy airport is slim to none, and if it does turn out that way, perhaps he should let his stalker put him out of his misery. He doesn't mean that. Not really.

~

PM: Power development and complex training in the warmth of the gym. Strength and plyometric work for explosiveness. Low reps, high speed. Power cleans and hurdle jumps. He throws his very being into the workout, because what else is there? He’s starting to lose faith. He doesn't feel worthy, isn't proud of anything he’s done this month.

His life has become so hard to face, and his force of will is beginning to fade. His only defense is to bury his feelings into his carefully constructed void and just grind it out. It’s frightening how often he does this and how well it seems to be working out.

Yet his husk of a body is still here and still needs. Still wants. Wants success, respect admiration, vindication. Wants release. Wants to be heard, to be loved, comforted, to cry on a shoulder. If only for a little while. But most of all, he wants Bastian. Bastian is the only one who understands how things have been for him because he's gone through it himself. He dreams that Bastian has come to stay with him in Milan. To be with him, near him, in him. But the truth is, Bastian is a million miles away, and he's here, completely alone, in Milan. He doesn't even have his dog anymore - he’s sent him back to Köln. After completing his workout, he skips showering at the gym and heads straight home.

At the end of the day, he falls apart. All of it cuts at his soul, and when he’s alone like this, he can’t escape as much as he thinks he can. He’s black and dead, charred over, yet still smoking. He’s so fucking tired of this- of searching for a place to belong yet never finding it. The national team has always been the light at the end of the long dark tunnel that is his career, but even that looks uncertain at this point. He wouldn't be surprised at all if he doesn't get a call up in March.

He finally breaks down and cries on the cold tile floor inside his shower. He not exactly sure why. He’s a _Strassenkicker_ , for Christ’s sake - he’s tougher than this. But moving from an old team, where he was looked over to a new one where the not so distant history is starting to repeat itself, having all this pressure on him to do his best and score goals, it’s just _too much._ For the first time he can remember, he wishes that he's someone else. Someone with a normal life. He’s tired of getting passed over for younger, quicker players, tired of watching his son grow up from afar, tired of newspapers breathing down his back and expecting him to do poorly and saying, “I told you so,” when he does. 

He’s far more lost than he wants to admit. He feels like he’s running out of time, is short on options, and desperation is beginning to chew him up inside. Wounds that have never healed have split open and are bleeding down the drain with his tears. He doesn't know how to close them. Doesn't know what he’s doing wrong in his life. In football, in any of it. He can’t even begin to figure out how to change. He asks himself when it all went downhill, but knows it never really went up for him. His life is a lesson in what could have been, but wasn't. He feels himself breaking but doesn't know how to stop it.

At the end of the day, all he can do is pick himself up, dry off his body and his tears, and crawl into bed. And then do it all over again.

 

**Saturday**

AM: Low Intensity again today. Another game tomorrow. The warm up includes more speed and reaction training. After, they practice penalty kicks and set pieces. Spirits are higher than they've been for the last few days, and it’s warmer than before. There’s an undercurrent of hope in the air.

The game against Palermo isn't going to be easy. Mancini gives them a pep talk before leaving for a press conference, tells them to put on their best game faces and power through. It’s a home game. It would be even more humiliating than it already is if they lose this one too.

~

PM: He decides he’s going to do it - he’s going to the Sheraton. He needs to break up the monotony. He doesn't call Bastian, but, somehow, he knows it’s him, because… he just _knows_.

He arrives at the hotel early to check in and watch the Arsenal game. He dives under the plush white covers of the king size bed and smiles when Mesut gets a goal, glad to see his friend is back strong from his injury. He uploads a post to his Instagram, cheering on the Gunners, but doesn't take it personally when Arsenal loses 1-2 to Tottenham.

Then he flips the channel to Bastian’s game. Bastian has a bug up his ass today, and he chuckles at Basti’s antics when he nicks an opposing player’s heels early on, handing Stuttgart a free kick. The game goes pretty well. He can tell that Bayern is feeling the loss of the injured players, but they’re able to make up for it and win handily.

He checks his watch after the game ends and sees it’s almost 6 pm. Bored, he fools around with his phone idly, wondering when Bastian will show up. He gives him a call, but Bastian doesn't pick up. His phone must be off. He shoots him a text, _Congrats on your win._ Then as an afterthought: _It better be you_.

He waits. Feels his eyes getting heavier with each passing minute. The bed is too comfy, the blankets too soft and warm. He’ll just close his eyes and rest for a moment.

~

Next thing he knows, there’s something heavy on his chest and he can’t breathe. He can’t move either. Confusion sets in, amplified by his drowsiness. He peels his eyes open and meets a pair of hazel-green eyes only inches away from his face.

 _Finally_.

“Hi, sleepyhead.”

Bastian’s here. He’s really here. Just like that, Lukas finds himself. He smiles up at him, his throat clenching without his consent, tears stinging his eyes. He can’t respond. He shuts his eyes and wills himself not to completely break down, because Bastian’s watching him, and when he feels kisses on each of his eyelids, he lifts his hands to rest on Bastian’s arms and just absorbs the weight of Bastian’s body on top of his.

Lips cover his own, light and tender and honest. But not completely; Bastian slides his legs up to straddle him and press their groins together, slips his arms around his waist into the small of his back, surrounds him, owns him. Lukas nods his chin forward and receives all of it.

His stomach growls. Bastian breaks the kiss and opens his eyes.

“We should eat first.”

“No. Keep going. Please, Basti. I need this.”

Bastian gives him a searching glance, concern swirling in his eyes; he’s going to stop and call room service, but Lukas can’t handle that. What they’re doing right now is more important than dinner. Food can’t heal this. Bastian is his lifeline. He clings onto him desperately, turns his head up again and seizes Bastian’s mouth in a silent plea. Bastian gives in and takes over from there, licks up his jawline to nip at his earlobe, kisses down his neck to lap at the dip between his collarbones, reaches a hand under his shirt and slides it up his stomach, fingers skimming across his chest to seek a nipple and gently pinch.

Lukas moans. The first inklings of arousal have sparked in his groin; the warm, familiar feeling soothing his pain. He has no idea how he’s functioned for so long without this.

Bastian moves over him, lazily thrusts, his arousal a stiff line against his own. Lukas is fully hard now and grabs at the belt of Bastian’s pants and at his ass, rolls his hips up into him, their movements furthering along their desire. Bastian runs his hand up to the back of his neck, kneading, claiming -  and he comes up to kiss him again, their tongues meeting. There’s no rush. It’s not a challenge. The passion and emotion surrounding them gradually unfurls, and he lets it be, wants to see where it will go, hopes Bastian will find a way to get rid of his pain.

Bastian pulls Lukas’s shirt up and over his head to expose his chest and abdomen and then sucks the same nipple into his mouth, flicking back and forth over it with his tongue, which draws more noise from Lukas, fingers tugging at Bastian's hair. Bastian pecks his way down Lukas's stomach, leaving a trail of dampness in his wake. He kisses over the top of Lukas’s briefs, down his length, then back up again, all with tantalizing sweetness.

Bastian glances up at him and smiles, covers the hand Lukas has rested on his stomach with one hand, pulls down the elastic band of his briefs with the other.  He starts at his balls, slowly licks up like he has all the time in the world, then covers the tip of his cock with his mouth. He wraps a hand around him, starts to moves his mouth and hand up and down his length, and Lukas looks down to see green eyes blazing up at him. He feels like he’s suffocating and doesn't care, sighs into Bastian's ministrations. Bastian uncurls his fingers from Lukas’s, and his hand disappears between Lukas’s thighs, searching for entrance, and he feels a finger slip inside of him. Bastian gives him time to adjust and take and enjoy; this is all part of the night, all part of the process, but nonetheless all for him. He pokes another finger in, digs around, and Lukas gasps and arches his back when he finds the right spot, squeezes his eyes shut even tighter. It’s all so perfectly gratifying. It makes him forget.

The mouth and fingers withdraw, far too soon, and Bastian tells him, “Turn over.”

He lets out a desperate little whimper that sounds more like a sob, but obliges. Once he’s on his stomach, Bastian covers each cheek of his buttocks with more kisses, nudging with his nose here and there for good measure.

“I love your ass.”

Lukas smiles, he knows this. Bastian could go at his ass for days, and he’s content to let him. Bastian kisses from his balls up and over the expanse of flesh leading to his hole, slides a hand under each of Lukas’s thighs, propping his rear up, and begins to lick around the ring of puckered flesh, circling and tracing it before delving his tongue inside.

When they were young, they would fuck, sloppy and quick and a little shameful. But now, Bastian gives to him and explores him in a way he's never done before. Sucks and licks with reverence. L _oves_ him with confidence. His chin digs into sensitive skin as his tongue keeps dancing inside of him, and Lukas buries his face in the pillow, moans and gasps escaping his mouth one after another. It feels so _good_. It’s exactly what he needs. The tongue delves again and again, Bastian tightens his grip around his thighs, pulling him closer so he can get deeper, and somehow he’s able to get at _that_ spot. Lukas reaches down to stroke himself. There's only Bastian's tongue and his hand, and the pleasure builds and builds, and Bastian turns his world inside out, and suddenly, with a strangled cry, he’s coming.

The tongue withdraws, licks up the line of his spine to the back of his neck, and he turns his head weakly to meet Bastian’s mouth when it arrives. Bastian rests flush on top of him while he recovers.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“I am now,” says Lukas with a half-grin.

“I know… I know how it’s been for you.”

“I’m used to it.”

“You can’t give up, Luki. You gotta keep on trying.”

“I am, Basti, but I don’t know if I’ll get a call up this time. I don’t fit on team the way they need.”

“But… I need you with me in March.” Bastian slides his arms around Lukas’s stomach and hugs him. In a quieter voice that Lukas almost misses, he utters, “What will I do without you?”

“You’ll find a way. You’re the _Fußballgott_.”

There’s wet warmth between his shoulder blades. Basti’s crying. The weight of his problems and Bastian on top of him is too heavy; it’s so hard not to just let himself sink under. He doesn't want to drown, and he doesn't want to drag Bastian down with him, wants to be there for Bastian, because they've never _not_ been on the National Team together, but the water is up to his neck, and he’s finding it harder to keep his head afloat.

“Just be quiet. I haven’t given up yet,” he says, after it becomes unbearable. He rolls to his side, depositing Bastian on the bed next to him and flips onto his back. “Erase me, Basti.”

Bastian lifts his head, then the rest of his body. He looks like he’s searching for words, but can’t find them, and he defaults to doing what they do best together. Their hands and bodies curl into each other like they’re finding their way home - they _are_ home to each other. Bastian’s the only one who can reach him in this way, the only one who can make it better. Lukas will shrivel up and die without him - they both know this. When one of them is weak, the other is there to pick him up, and they’re reborn together. They’re connected by the roots of their country, having started out in same place at the same time and held each other through it all. This is how they do it and how they've always done it.

Bastian sheds the rest of his clothes and produces a small tube of lube from his pant pocket. He crawls between Lukas’s legs, flipping them up over his own. Lukas looks up at him and waits. Gives him full power to do whatever he wants. Bastian comes down to cup his cheek and meet his mouth again, turns to kiss one of his palms, sucks on his index finger, his own fingers digging lightly into the pulse of Lukas’s wrist, and Lukas lets him worship his body as it starts to wake up again.

Then Bastian is down _there_ , pressing at his entrance. He lifts his hips up, offers himself to Bastian - he's been waiting for this. Lukas hisses as Bastian enters him, painstakingly slowly, bit by bit, not wanting to hurt him. He’s still really tight, but he welcomes this kind of physical discomfort - needs it - to eclipse the emotional pain he’s been carrying.

Bastian rests there when he’s completely inside of Lukas. Gazes down at him with tear-stained cheeks like he’s taking a photo to store it away and keep it until they meet again, says, _you’re so beautiful like this_ , and the look is so intense it brings tears to Lukas’s eyes. They cry together, Bastian’s kissing all over his face, kissing away his tears, and Lukas absorbs it all as their tears flow down his cheeks.

Bastian pulls out and drives back up, slow and deliberate, forcing the breath from Lukas’s lungs. Lukas squeezes his eyes shut and draws his legs around Bastian, and they begin to rock together, finding a rhythm. Bastian keeps kissing Lukas, and Lukas is gasping and sobbing into his mouth. He digs nails into the expanse of Bastian’s back, encouraging him, _more, deeper_. Deep enough to reach his pain, deep enough to find the pleasure. He needs to be unraveled and put back together, and filled, and Bastian does this. They both clutch at each other, and Bastian growls, _mine, mine mine_ , with each thrust, their desperation growing, closer to the impending wave that is going to crash through them and drown them and bind them to each other forever.

Lukas can’t take this any longer. He’s drowning. He reaches down between them to grab himself and jerks hastily, and Bastian’s hand covers his own, and they’re stroking together, moving together. Bastian’s speeding up and changing his angle - _there_ \- a few more quick thrusts, and his movements falter. He pushes tight against Lukas and goes rigid, fills him, hot and scalding. Lukas is no longer dying. The storm is raging and Bastian kills his pain, and he can finally _breathe_ again; Bastian is all around him, everywhere, and everything is truth and bliss, and then his own orgasm thunders through him, and he’s free.

 

**Sunday**

Game day. Basti’s still asleep when Lukas leaves in the morning. But Lukas isn't lost. Not anymore, not yet. He takes  _himself_ away, along with the glimmer of hope that Basti has planted deep within him. As long as he has Basti, it might be enough.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to refrain from using Lukas's name for the first part. My idea being: the life he's living right now doesn't belong to him and he's not the one living it, not until Bastian comes to give it back to him. I'm not sure if it works, but it's what I was going for.
> 
> I'm on tumblr: dementiahormones.tumblr.com
> 
> Shoot me a tell - I love talking about Schweinski, the German NT, or anything else!
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


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